"Your grandmother from that château on the Scheldt Miss Moore talks about."
"Martin," said the softest whisper at the door, "don't be foolish."
"Is she there?" inquired Moore, hastily. He had caught an imperfect sound.
"She is there, fit to faint: she is standing on the mat, shocked at your want of filial affection."
"Martin, you are an evil cross between an imp and a page. What is she like?"
"More like me than you; for she is young and beautiful."
"You are to show her forward. Do you hear?"
"Come, Miss Caroline."
"Miss Caroline!" repeated Moore.
And when Miss Caroline entered, she was encountered in the middle of the chamber by a tall, thin, wasted figure, who took both her hands.
"I give you a quarter of an hour," said Martin, as he withdrew: "no more. Say what you have to say in that time: till it is past, I will wait in the gallery: nothing shall approach: I'll see you safe away. Should you persist in staying longer, I leave you to your fate."
He shut the door. In the gallery he was as elate as a king: he had never been engaged in an adventure he liked so well; for no adventure had ever invested him with so much importance, or inspired him with so much interest.
"You are come at last," said the meagre man, gazing on his visitress with hollow eyes.
"Did you expect me before?"
